


All Men Will Have Their Reward

by AgeandEnvy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Oneshot, Other, Prompt Fill, i'm really truly very sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgeandEnvy/pseuds/AgeandEnvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Modern-day Reincarnation AU with Grantaire and Enjolras on different sides. </p><p>Tumblr prompt fill (sort of) from tattooedjehan</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Men Will Have Their Reward

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw this [thing on tumblr](http://bottomjolrass.tumblr.com/post/80463496366/tattooedjehan-but-an-e-r-reincarnation-au) and I thought why not
> 
> All credit to the [OP](http://tattooedjehan.tumblr.com) for the idea
> 
> I'm also really sorry? This was always gonna just be really sad, but I wish it wasn't. I'll write something with cookies and kittens next time, I promise.
> 
> Obviously, as we all know, all characters belong to Mr. Hugo, only the typos are mine.

 

** All men will have their reward.**

 

He couldn’t even remember what they fighting for, anymore. 

Weeks of planning, weeks of meetings, of discussions, arguments.  
Posters and flyers made and distributed, questions answered, radio and newspaper interviews, and now, he chose to forget their aim.  
  
They’d always been passionate about righting all the world’s wrongs, himself, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. When they got to uni, they’d decided to do something about it, something more than writing letters and not wearing uniform to school, arguing with teachers, parents, anyone in a position of authority, really.  
  
They started meeting at a café just off campus, the Musain. Some people heard them talking about it, some people they told. They put flyers up in the various common rooms. Eventually, they had a nice little group going, a raggedy gang of misfits, all fighting for the cause, whether it be rising education fees, falling wages, rising costs of living, the length of the waiting list for organ transplants on the NHS.  
  
They were all good friends, great friends, some of them.  
Jehan and Courfeyrac were getting along better and better recently. Joly, the med student, and Combeferre would meet up and chat over coffee, sometimes joined by Joly’s friend Bossuet. Bahorel, the boxer and Enjolras’ fellow law student proved useful, very useful, for getting them both in and out of jail.

_(It happened once or twice, a night spent in lockup after a not-so-very-peaceful protest. They were as careful as possible, aware how a criminal record could affect their future prospects (you can’t change the world very well stacking shelves in Tesco's, after all), but sometimes people got rowdy, out of hand, and who were they to tell people they couldn’t fight for what they believed in.)_

He didn’t know where they were now, his friends. Had lost sight of them when the guns started going off. 

_(He hoped at least some of them had got away. They all had so much ahead of them, people waiting for them at home.)_  
  
Something had felt off the whole time they’d been planning this thing. He’d brushed it off, putting it down to exam stress, not wanting to share it with the others, not wanting to concern them.  
  
_(He probably could have told Combeferre, he would’ve understood.Combeferre always did. Bit late for that now though, he supposed.)_  
  
When they got there, and saw that they’d been preceded by the riot police, he felt a twinge of something.  

When they saw that the police were armed, he felt a twinge of something else; apprehension maybe?   
No matter how he appeared, he never planned on martyring himself for the cause. He knew that he could be much more effective alive than dead, knew the effect his words could have on people (and okay, maybe his face a little too, not that he’d ever admit it). He’d decided long ago, however, that he would not die afraid, cowering. He was a proud man, and if – when – the time came, he’d face it head on.  
He’d never expected the time to be quite so soon, though.  
  
_(So much still to do, so much still to see, people, places, something was missing.)_

He thought he understood all that poetry of Jehan’s now. 

He thought momentarily of his parents, before discarding the mental image of their faces as quickly as it had popped, unprompted, into his head. Now was not the time for regret. Any blame could be, and was, placed firmly at their door; he couldn’t help who he was.

_(Still, a small, vaguely childish part of him wished not to be alone, not now.)_  
  
The sound of military boots on cobblestone echoed up to him, chilling his spine. He’d never meant to retreat, but he wasn’t running away. He couldn’t, now. The sounds of gunfire from the square seemed to have stopped, at least. No more deaths. Just his.  
  
_(He could still see the first body hit the pavement, the cry that left her mouth as she fell, cut short too soon. She wasn’t even supposed to be there, had followed that stupid boy –)_  
  
He stopped himself. It didn’t do well to speak ill of the dead.  
  
At that thought a hollow laugh was ripped from his throat. Not amusement, certainly; despair?  
There was no point being quiet now, he could hear the shout of voices from below.  
  
_Over here, we’ve found another one._

Only a matter of time. 

He wished that feeling would dissipate, though. He was about to die, he’d like to do it without something still niggling at him, a twinge of doubt that wouldn’t go away.

They were there suddenly, swarming through the door like ants, black bulletproof vests their exoskeletons, footsteps echoing off four walls, disturbing his momentary peace.   
  
_It’s him, we’ve found him, the one that shot the officer._

_The leader._  
  
It occurred to him, now, oddly, uselessly, that he was in no way harmed, at least not physically. The blood that spattered his shirt was not his, nor was the gore that stained his trousers. He could leave here, now, whole as he had been that morning.  
Of course, he could not.  
He let his hand relax, dropping the gun he clasped to the ground. He centred his weight, letting his arms fall by his sides, straightening his spine, proffering his chest. They’d want a clear target.

_It seems I am about to shoot a flower._

There was a pause.  
  
_(Get on with it, will you? I haven’t got all day.)_

He let his eyes drift up, glance across the faces of his would-be assassins. All boys, none of them that much older than himself, and he just a child, really. 

( _What a waste. They are throwing their lives away just as much as he.)_

One, blonde, freckled; 21, 22?  
Another, the spitting image of Feuily.  
And a third – _a third_.  
  
He didn’t feel so peculiar, not anymore.  
  
A third, dark-haired and wild-eyed, tired looking, unshaven.  
A bit older, 25?  
Uniform not as clean and pressed as the others’.

It all came back to him, suddenly, a rush of images and voices, songs and gunfire and blood, _so much blood._ Of laughing, blue eyes, of _“I am wild.”_ Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Feuily, Bahorel, Gavroche, Eponine, an old woman, _blood, so much blood._  

Grantaire.

He remembered now, and he hated himself for it. Here he was, surrounded by guns, and he would gladly throw himself onto them for what he had done, _again_ , for what he had put his friends through.

_His friends, who had been there all this time, for years. Centuries._

He looked for the soldier again, the blue-eyed one, _Grantaire._ Did he understand? His brother, his friend, his –

No.   
  
He remembered the first time. The air thick with the stench of gunpowder and blood, the despair he had felt when he’d seen his friends fall, one by one, the brief spark of happiness he’d felt when he’d realised Grantaire had not been among them, that the cynic might not be forced to die for a cause he never believed in, that he alone might survive this idiocy, for that is what it was. A waste, purely, an unnecessary waste of young life.  
  
He couldn’t deny though, the spark of hope that had bloomed in his chest when those words had round out – _“Long live the republic!” –_ his one selfish wish, that _he would not die alone._  

His thought now was the same. Even if Grantaire was the one firing the gun, at least he would not be alone. 

Did he remember, too?  
  
He could not tell, although, perhaps – no. The eyes of the blue eyed soldier – Grantaire – did, in fact, look watery. 

_(Please, do not cry, not for me.)_

_(I don’t deserve your tears.)_  

The commander's voice was shockingly loud in the small room.  
  
_Take aim!_

 Grantaire had a pained look on his face, the eyes that should by rights be sparkling with humour were dull, flat, hollow.

His gun, however, was raised with the rest of them.

He felt he should say something, anything. Let them know that he remained true, that he was not condoning their actions, but would accept them. Show them he was not afraid, was ready.

_(And perhaps, something to offer comfort to one soldier in particular.)_

His death, still on his terms. They would meet again, know again, love again. They all would. They would live again, in freedom. 

In the end, the words came easily to his lips, as if they’d been lodged in his throat a while, waiting to be acknowledged, released. 

‘I’ll permit it.’ 

_(A hand clasped with his, a smile, returned. “Do you permit it?”)_

Eight bullets hit home; his chest, his shoulder, his stomach. He lived long enough to see the first tear fall from the blue eyes

He remained standing, the bullets nailing him to the wall as if it was a cross, and he the consummate martyr, only his head was bowed. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, yeah.  
> Comments and kudos and things are nice <3  
> This is my first time writing, well, anything, so please be nice. Fragile, emotionally unstable fangirl here.  
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://hollow-laughter-in-marble-halls.tumblr.com/) if you wanna say hi :)


End file.
